Posted in Thoughts


There’s a difference between missing someone and missing the comfort of being with someone. But sometimes, the lines got so blurred she couldn’t tell which is which anymore.

And last night was one of those times.


Because her walls came closing in last night, and those carefully buried skeletons in her closet crawled out. Swarming around her until she can barely breathe, dragging her below the ground. It took her emptying her reservations all night just to get out, back into the daylight where her adversaries all withered and died. And even then, the slithering darkness gripped her so tightly, it left a red mark around her wrists.

Last night felt a lot like torture for Elsa Bloodstone. She scraped her throat raw from screaming and cursing as she claw her way out, suffocated by her own worse nightmares as she choked on her tears and her long forgotten fears. And she tries, as the sun rise, to doused the still rising bile on her throat with cups of brandy-infused-tea. To shrug it off as she distracts herself with endless surges of adrenaline and death defying antics.


But truth be told, she was not alright.


Because last night, she was so shaken her brain immediately went on autopilot. And apparently, it was still hardwired to search for the comfort John Constantince once provided. She felt a lot like a junkie on a withdrawal last night, fighting a losing battle against an urge so strong it nearly got her falling into another relapse.

Because last night, she was a hair away from picking up her phone and dialed the number she had sworn to forgot.


But that was last night, and this is now.


After all, the ghost of John Constantine only come out when the lights are off and the silence is far too loud, haunting her with the what ifs and romanticized past in her weakest moments.


The way last night almost broke her to thousand pieces.

But last night doesn’t happen so often anymore. And a random bouts of sadness is a much cheaper price that Elsa is willing to pay, compared to all those sleepless nights she spent crying silently because John Constantine was both her poison and her salvation.






À la mort,

Prompt: Ryan Adam’s Clean.
“Just because you’re clean don’t mean you don’t miss it.”



An emotionally invested enthusiast of pop culture. Apathetic by design. Aesthetically offensive and eloquently candid. A sentimental heathen.

One thought on “Clean

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